2

Look at them. The couples walking holding hands on their way home, their breaths laced with alcohol; the taxi drivers with their unshaven faces and their tired eyes; the woman in the corner, standing absently, her arms crossed over her belly as if she's holding onto something–her dreams, maybe, or her despair–that might spill out of her if she lets go. That will spill out of her like guts.

They have lives, all of them, a world they inhabit. Squatting right at its center. Jobs. Families. Hobbies.

You were like that, too, once, remember?

Remember who you were before you became…this?